


Toe Pick Tuesdays

by florahart



Category: The Cutting Edge (1992)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, bite-size ficlet, toe pick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 01:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17152649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: One of the kids wants to figure skate.  Kate doesn't want that for her daughter.





	Toe Pick Tuesdays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunarknightz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarknightz/gifts).



> Main collection's not open yet, so here I am writing wee stories while I wait. :D

Raising four high-energy kids (plus Doug), Kate was long familiar with the sound of an icepack being made. It usually went something like this: door opening and closing, thumpthump of the pack (and the skates; there were always skates) hitting the tile, freezer door, ice cube box rattling, no clinking in a glass, third drawer (which sticks, so there's usually a low grumble at it), rummaging for the ziploc because obviously getting that out _while_ already holding the ice was the correct icepack production methodology, more grumbling and/or swearing about the difficulty of zipping said ziploc, audible flop onto the couch, generally with sighing.

Not that peas didn't serve the same purpose pretty well, but there were only so many times that she could go to get out peas she meant to, wait for it here, heat until hot and place on the supper table, or add to shepherd's pie, or put in a tuna noodle casserole (a meal her mother would absolutely have rolled over in her grave about, but it's salty and carb-y and creamy, and also shut up it's the food of Doug's childhood, so), and find that all peas have left the building before she'd placed a firm edict on peapacks.

She'd only had to go on strike four times to make it stick, but now they definitely all knew better.

She listened a bit more to see who was getting teased as the stuck-drawer problem was being negotiated.

Actually, no, she listened to see who was _home_. No one was twitting anyone, and that alone was weird; their kids were kind of a box set – four babies in forty-six months would do that, damn Doug and his hot ass and highly effective sperm (not really. She loved that her kids were a pack). But no one was hassling anyone else, and so she went to investigate.

Doug was on the couch, icepack over one eye.

"I thought you were coaching tonight?"

He lifted off the icepack to show her what, okay, was, in fact, a pretty epic shiner.

She tilted her head for a better view. "Toe pick situation?"

"Actually..." His eyes – well, the one not under the ice pack, but probably that one too – slid off to one side in classic 'don't want eye contact for this' style, and he cleared his throat. "Yes. Emma wanted another demo of my side of the Pamchenko. I put on the right skates. Then I, uh. Forgot and tried to run drills with Antonia and the boys. And then toe pick happened."

"Why's she asking for Pamchenkos again? We agreed: no figure stuff until she's older."

"I know, and she knows, but she's your daughter. Stubborn as five mules."

"That? Is not entirely on me."

"Right. One of the mules is me. You know she has a backpack calendar in which she is literally counting down the days until she's twelve and you let her start working on figure stuff? Not that she's not already; she borrows Rachel McGannon's skates every time she thinks I'm not looking."

Kate sighed. "Shit. Well, is she any good?"

"She's going to be ridiculous and tempestuous and impossible."

"I just don't want her to get hurt." Kate had said this before, to other parents of kids who skated like they walked. Generally, once they realized she meant that hockey was safer, there was questioning of her sanity, but Doug knew what she meant.

"Yeah. But... here's something. Matty goes with her sometimes. He swaps with that Piretti kid whose folks don't want him knocking his teeth out."

"And apparently have never heard of mouth guards."

"Exactly what I said, but they looked at me like I peed actually on a saint during Mass or something, so."

"And so you show her things, which means you think I should let up."

He wagged a hand. "I don't think you should let up on the competing. That game is for people whose frontal lobes are fully developed."

"So you'll be good for it in March or so?"

He grinned. "I'm a pretty quick study. Maybe February."

"But you're still showing her things."

"I guess I just don't want her to decide we're hopeless and go looking for help breaking her neck with some unethical asshole who'll pair her up with a hooligan that doesn't know his toe pick from his testicles and get her hurt."

"Oh, I feel much more encouraged about her safety. Also I'm not sure you're the right person to have that concern."

Doug took off the icepack and set it aside, then looked at the stinkeye she was giving him about setting it on the wood end table and got up to take it to the sink. "Look, what if I work with her one evening a week. Maybe Tuesdays after piano. Her and Matty. Get 'em good skates, give 'em solid basics. Make 'em do the precision crap they used to score on? The perfect figure eights and stuff?"

"The compulsories? They probably know they're not a thing any more."

"Yeah, but fundamentals are important for any sport. Not like we don't drill stuff that is never in a real game for hockey, so..." He shrugged.

"You do it with her and Matty, you're gonna get Antonia and Nick too."

"I know. But, you know, safety in numbers. If they all know the basics there's no sneaking."

"And then everyone safely comes home with eyeball trauma every Tuesday?"

"Probably not. Also, I mean, they look to me for power and speed. They'd love to get precision stuff from you, you know. And art. And stamina and gracefulness and lean strength and you can stop me any time..."

"Oh, no. Keep going. I'm ready to listen to you say nice things about me until the cows come home. Or the kids, which I assume will be in another half hour, tops."

Doug dumped his half-melted ice in the sink and turned toward her. "Half an hour, huh? Half an hour, just us? Alone? Got any ideas about what we could do?"

She pursed her lips. "Our taxes?"

He laughed and leaned down to kiss her lips. "Not what I was thinking, but I guess if you want to put on your glasses and look all smart and orderly we could kill two birds with one stone?"

She winked and rose up on her toes to kiss him back. "Might need you to carry me upstairs to find them. If you're not too injured."

"No such thing," Doug assured her. "Never has been, never will be."

She let him scoop her up, then said, "You think one day a week will sate her for now?"

"God I hope so," he said, heading for the stairs. "Carrying you up the stairs, I can do. Drying her tears and traveling the competition circuit: not. ready."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Fine. One day a week, and you bore her to death with compulsories. I guess I can tolerate that."

"Cool. Now, can you tolerate..." He moved his hand to tickle her ribs. 

"You suck. Also, long-established fact: I can take anything you can dish, mister."

"Awesome."


End file.
